


Everyone's An Idiot

by BlasphemousProphet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Potter!Lock, Potterlock, Wizarding World, sherlock/harry potter crossover - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlasphemousProphet/pseuds/BlasphemousProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic about the scent of Sherlock and John's amoretia potions. Alls well that ends well. A bit of Potterlock never hurt anybody. Or a bit of gay idiots don't realize they're in love tropes. </p>
<p> Trigger warning: brief discussion of non-consensual encounter between Sherlock and Irene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone's An Idiot

It was school policy, after the Second Wizarding War, for houses to take classes together interchangeably, to foster a sense of unity and team spirit. A hopeless effort entirely, Sherlock thought, not entirely displeased, waiting for John Watson to take the seat next to him.   
John Watson- some dirt on his robes from an aggressive round of Quidditch (Morstan had gotten him knocked out with a bludger, Sherlock could see that, and then spent the next fifteen minutes smoothing the hair off John’s dirty forehead), a tie he had worn for a week straight (wrinkled, slept with it at the foot of his bed, if Sherlock was there he would have-)  
“Hey,” John greeted him. John was happy to see him. John always seemed happy to see him.   
“Attention, class. Today we will be creating Amorentia, a scent composed of your deepest desires. Of course I would rather not have a bunch of oversexed teenagers running amok in this classroom but it is part of the curriculum, and thus I will do my best. Sherlock, a word?”  
Professor June strode out of the classroom, leaving Sherlock in charge as she often did when she had too much butterbeer the night before.   
“What should we do?” asked Molly Hooper.   
“You might want to try opening your textbook,” snapped Sherlock. “Page 238. Follow the instructions.”  
John watched Sherlock mix the potion tersely, automatically making two cauldrons for him and John instead of one to share. “I can take that from here,” he told Sherlock, reaching for the spoon.  
“Of course you can. It’s finished,” Sherlock pointed out, smiling a little.   
“Right,” said John. His cauldron smelled of fresh cut grass, of the Fleur de Lis perfume Mary Morstan sometimes wore, of that cologne Sherlock doused his hair in when he didn’t have enough patience to shower, of the Gryffindor common room, all smoke and comfort, of the library, arguing behind the stacks with Sherlock, of wood, broomsticks specifically, riding through the sky with Sherlock’s head buried in his back, terrified of flight, of tea, of Christmas and of Sherlock. It was impossible to ignore. The whole damn thing smelled like Sherlock.   
Sherlock’s cauldron was finished. It was technically perfect (obviously, Sherlock was the best student in the class, he reminded himself) and had Professor June been there she would have been tempted to share it with the class, so Sherlock was immensely grateful that she wasn’t (that she was, in fact, currently being sick in the Girls bathroom on the fourth floor while Moaning Myrtle mocked her from behind) and Sherlock was grateful because, well, his potion smelled like…nothing. There was no scent.   
“Are you alright?” asked John quietly. His potion was a vibrant rosy color, heat stirring up from it to match the other potions the students had ineptly brewed.   
“Class dismissed,” barked Sherlock. The students filed out, Molly glancing a bit at Sherlock’s impassive face (which softened a little when he saw her, but not much, and certainly not willingly) and John waiting. Sherlock’s rules didn’t apply to John.   
“What’s yours?” asked John, hovering too close for comfort.   
“A mistake,” said Sherlock, tilting the whole gray mess into the garbage.   
“Impossible,” said John. “You made mine and it was perfect.”  
“I’m not perfect,” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve made mistakes before and I’ll make them again.”  
Sherlock began stuffing supplies into his bookbag. Some ripwood, hair of a unicorn- Sherlock often stole from the Potions supply closet, but never anything as commonplace as this. It was all the ingredients for Amorentia.  
“Don’t you think Professor June will notice?” ventured John.  
“Please. She doesn’t notice anything. She sees-“  
“But doesn’t observe,” sighed John, following Sherlock out of the classroom. They stopped at the Slytherin common room entrance.   
“John, please. I need some space,” said Sherlock.  
“Are you alright?”  
Sherlock left. Even upset, he always did have a sense of the theatric. 

Another perfect potion. Another perfectly scentless potion. Sherlock lay on his bed, hands clasped in prayer position, as he pondered the evidence.  
He was not attracted to anything.   
Improbable. Evidence pointed to the contrary.   
Or that time Irene had pushed him into a broom closet and Sherlock had searched for his wand but she had disarmed him, and his body betrayed him by responding to her, and he closed his eyes the entire time and pretended he was at home, in his laboratory, experimenting on Animagus in rats, and he had bitten his lips so hard he had been pleading and he hadn’t bothered to protest because there wasn’t a point and damn, his transport, this stupid human form had failed him and he despised himself for it-  
Gryffindor winning that Quidditch game in year four, running out on the field and impulsively hugging John, John’s sweaty face tucked into his neck, John’s arms stretched around him, Sherlock suddenly pushing John away for fear John might detect a sudden bulge in his pants his cloak might not cover-  
So Sherlock was capable of physiological attraction (anyone that close to another human being like John and Sherlock were that day would have had the same reaction, anyone lucky enough to be that close to John Watson would have had the same reaction if they weren’t an idiot) but perhaps he was not capable of emotional attraction?  
Unlikely. Mycroft (idiot) often mocked him for being “obvious” and House Master Hudson (of Gryffindor, John’s house, irrelevant currently) said he ‘had the biggest heart in Hogwarts.’ An exaggeration, surely, but perhaps her objectivity gave her more insight? And there were other times.   
“Fucking squib!” yelled Timothy Morton. “Didn’t you hear? His mother’s a squib. It’s hereditary! John Watson’s a squib!”  
John Watson (certainly not a squib), cornered by a number of older students on the Hogwarts express, not daring to turn around and wave at his mother while the train pulled away, even as his mother watched his back, waving frantically, poor woman-  
“Stupefy!” yelled Sherlock.   
And later, John hugged him, his teary face buried in Sherlock’s freshly washed sweater, alone in their compartment of the train, seeming entirely comfortable nestled in Sherlock’s arms, Sherlock feeling protective and furious all at once-  
Or that time Harry had gone to the Yule Ball with Clara and John, standing stick straight (devastatingly handsome in his dress robes which were a tad too long for him, couldn’t afford Madam Pomfrey’s, should have taken him), braced against the wall, just waiting for someone to say one word, one goddamn word, about his sister, because he was ready to hex the living daylights out of them. And Sherlock, abandoning Irene (who had demanded a dance, blackmailed, really) from slithering around him on the dance floor, had crossed the room to silently stand next to John, and when he couldn’t bear John’s silence anymore, had done all he could to make him laugh.   
“Where’s your date?”  
“Over there.” John pointed to the dance floor, where Jennifer and Trevor were kissing frantically. “Where’s yours?”  
“You’re my date,” said Sherlock and when John had squeezed his hand his heart had lifted-  
Or the time Sherlock had left John in Hogsmeade because he had remembered a potion he had left burning at Hogwarts and John had been furious (ended up coming home with Sarah, Hufflepuff, mediocre, stupid, ugly) and the guilt had almost suffocated Sherlock. How could he forget John? It was John! John was not forgettable. That was the first time Sherlock’s mind had failed him.   
Or writing John’s end of term papers for him, experimenting with invisibility cloaks, inviting John to the Holmes manor for Christmas every single year, knowing John would refuse because his mother wanted to see him-  
But the potion was scentless. Which meant Sherlock was not attracted to anything or anyone, despite any evidence to the contrary. Magic didn’t lie and neither did potions. He was going to be alone forever, watching John go out with witch after witch after witch, a boring lonely asexual sociopath…  
John Watson didn’t make a habit out of digging through garbage cans but Sherlock Holmes had thrown out a mystery, a delicious mystery, and John was desperate to know what had made Sherlock so upset and besides, a good cauldron was ten galleons and Sherlock would never remember to buy himself a new one so John would have to do it and cauldrons weren’t all that cheap…it didn’t smell like much to John, but what did he know?  
“Who does it smell like? God, John, you weirdo, it smells like you,” cackled Harry, leaning in to Clara’s lap.  
“Is that wizard wank?” asked muggleborn Clara, sitting up interestedly.  
“What? No!” snapped John, shoving the vial in his pocket.   
“You might not want to wander about in public with that!” yelled Harry after him.  
“People might get confused!” screeched Clara and they collapsed into a heap of shaking laughter.  
John waited outside the Slytherin dorm room for Sherlock to emerge.   
“You look terrible,” said John. “Did you sleep at all?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “What of it?”  
John pulled the vial out of his pocket. “Smell this,” he said.  
“What? John, no-“  
“Smell it,” John insisted.  
“I don’t need to,” snapped Sherlock. “I know it doesn’t smell like anything, sorry to be such a disappointment-“  
“Sherlock, you idiot,” said John fondly. “It smells like me.”  
Sherlock sniffed delicately. “How could I not recognize that? Am I immune to the scent? Is it possibility that I have desensitized myself to your scent due to constant close proximity? If I were to experiment with-“  
“Sherlock,” said John, putting a hand on his arm. “You know what mine smelled like?”  
“Fleur de Lys,” grumbled Sherlock, looking green. “Just a guess.”  
“No, you wanker. It smelled like you.”  
Sherlock stared directly at John who shrugged.  
“It’s not like I needed a potion to know I was attracted to you,” said John simply. “I thought you might want to know.”  
“I did-do want to know,” said Sherlock uncomfortably. “How could I have not seen this?”  
“Because you’re an idiot,” said John, pulling Sherlock down to kiss him (the kiss was all comfort and danger and rough edges and potential disasters and perfect OWLs and fireworks and and and Sherlock ran out of words)-  
“Don’t take it personally, almost everyone is,” said John.


End file.
